Manifesto The Great
When people ask Beryl how it all began, Beryl says little until after a few whiskies, then she likes to tell the stories of cleaners and how women took a chance to rule and never turned back.
Read on…if you dare.
Manifesto the Great was working on his incognito pose when she appeared. Poised like a starfish with his pot belly pulsating in and out he looked anything but the intellectual leader he used to be, and Beryl was impressed.
She was watching from the doorway, clutching his tray of coffee made from beans ripened under earth’s sun, and grounded between the thighs of five earth virgins-origins unknown.
So he believed…
In truth, she made his coffee from a packet in her shed where all the other working girls made coffee, except it was served in a mug so precious it could only be cleaned with silk.
Manifesto the Great had no idea his coffee was as cheap as a worker’s loo roll. He was old, senile and too busy trying to remember what he did yesterday to have time for coffee. By the time he sipped his coffee it was cold, and with a quick sniff followed by a toss, flying out the window splattering on the heads of masses below.
Three tosses and Beryl a young frugal woman had changed the coffee to something cheap, of recyclable origin and, thinking of the masses, good for hair.
Beryl watched her leader struggle with his balance.
Not one man questioned Manifesto the Great even though he repeated himself, fluffed his speeches and was frequently found at the masses market looking for the way home.
The status quo suited them, and the men had never had it so good.
Beryl had spent her time trying to find what made her leader tick, and over the years of silent service, she realized there was no tick to discover, just no choice.
Now Planet Hyman had a choice…
She watched the so-called great leader struggle for balance.
“Why don’t you try it on tippy toes?” she said.
“What?” He said, “In these shoes?”
“Sir you have no shoes on.” Said Beryl and gestured to his bunions.
“Arrrh yes forgot about those little blighters”
He eased up onto his toes.
He wobbled, fumbled and grabbed his desk.
Beryl looked at the cleaner lurking about the doorway “not long now” she mouthed.
The cleaner mid brushing of a cobweb nodded, pressed her hoover to shag-pile brushes and whispered into the nozzle, “tippy toes in operation.”
Beryl stared at her leader trying to balance with his arms outstretched like tight rope walker.
He smiled at Beryl.
“See, it works, incognito.”
He wobbled again.
Any minute thought Beryl with quick scrutiny her nails.
He grabbed the desk and missed, sending the Leader of the Year paperweight ball skidding across the desk- straight for his manifesto notes…
Beryl, fanning a save the notes run made for the paperweight as Manifesto the Great tumbled to the floor.
“Noooooo…” he shouted.
“It’s now or never,” shouted Beryl to the cleaner.
“Go go go…” hissed the cleaner into her hoover nozzle.
Like a swat team in aprons, the cleaners descended into the offices, the corridors of power, and the canteen.
Manifesto the Great and his crew didn’t stand a chance.